


Steps and Missteps

by heylifeitsemily



Series: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood, F/M, Français | French, Reader-Insert, abandoning each other, and finding your way back, fem!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylifeitsemily/pseuds/heylifeitsemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No two people experience the same event in the exact same manner. Some sort of emotional or physical dissonance always results in a change of perspective, leading to wildly different interpretations and subsequent courses of action. Sometimes motivations clash and enemies are forged from friends. Sometimes an unexpected turn leads to irreparable consequences.</p><p>And sometimes, you both plan on doing the exact same thing, and it just takes you further away from each other.</p><p>Not for long though. </p><p>(Sequel to Bucket List)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps and Missteps

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! You remember how a year and a half ago I said I would write some big overarching thing with the TF2 Comics? I have essays to write, and work to do, and I'm not doing any of it because I just got hit with a need to write more TF2. I am incredibly sorry for the wait, but I'll ramble later. Read on.

Surreal.

It's the only word that comes to mind at the news, in reading the fax from Ms. Pauling. The palms of your hands press flat against your desk, eyes staring blankly at the paper in front of you. Distantly, you hear shouting, outcries equal parts angry and confused as everyone reads the same message.

It's mostly legal jargon, mentions of employment termination and eviction notices, blithering nonsense for all that you're concerned. You know you shouldn't be surprised. After all, this day had to come eventually; the contract you signed did have a 'til death do us part' feel to it. You just always assumed it'd be your untimely demise rather than that of Mann Co.

Once, you'd asked Ms. Pauling how she felt about such a thought - that the two of you would be working here until you kicked the bucket. She seemed entirely unfazed by it. If anything, it must've spurred her on further, having invested all her time and effort into her work. She planned to be there when everything came to fruition, right by the Director’s side.

In the face of her alarming albeit heartwarming excitement, you pretended to feel the same, and in her tact, she pretended that you weren't full of shit.

 _I’m sorry_ the final line reads. You wonder if she wrote this on everyone's transmissions or if it was a private add-on, meant for the two of you alone. And that's why you're still sitting at your desk, head cocked inquisitively, puzzling it out.

_What is she apologizing for?_

* * *

Spy found himself walking to your door the moment he’d finished reading, entirely unsure of his end goal once he arrived. His legs carried him there independent of thought, much in the same way he retrieved a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it with practiced ease – it seemed second nature. Instinctual, perhaps. Your door was already open, as though you were halfway through closing it when the fax came through and paused the motion to investigate.

Now, he stands in the doorway, watching you contemplate and memorizing each tic, each little spasm and expression. The furrow of your brow, the irregular, absent-minded tap of your fingers, the shape of your jaw. He traces every feature, thankful you haven't yet noticed him or his voyeurism. He still cannot determine why he has come, if to reassure you or simply hold you or say goodbye.

 _Lâche!_ a voice in the back of his mind scolds, and it sounds like hundreds of people all at once, a chorus of every soul he’s ever encountered. The baker he stole from when he was but a child in rags, the boy from the alley who laughed as he dashed past, the elderly woman with eyes all too similar to his own, friends, enemies, lovers, and you.

You.

Your voice rings out among them, but there’s no venom, no malicious intent behind it. It’s from memories long past, joyous and teasing as you attempted to goad him into something unfathomably stupid or unsafe or both, like the rocket-jumping competition or the early, early morning donut run or saxophone lessons from the bushman. You would shout it giddily from across the room, or whisper it softly in his ear, the hint of a smile showing in the slight quirk of your lip, and he would snort in response.

Not that it mattered, since you always managed to convince him in the end.

You’re still fixated on the sparse paragraphs in front of you, entirely immobile save for the rise and fall of your chest. Pensive.

You aren’t yet ready to have this conversation. Yes, _you_ need more time to mull everything over and come to a well thought-out conclusion, a reliable plan of action going forward in the face of such an unexpected and debilitating change. He should leave you to it.

Silent as ever, he turns on his heel, telling himself the tear rolling down your cheek was simply a trick of the light. That it’s never polite to stare. He ponders the paradoxical fear, so potent he can feel it in his chest, somewhere under his ribs, just above his diaphragm, situating itself the same way one would curl into bed at night – as though it intended to have a long, intemperate stay. His legs were leaden yet his head lighter, feet dragging but stomach settling.

There was an urge to return to your side and console you by any means, his arm around you as he maps out every facet of your form. Determined to remember you in perfect detail, afraid of forgetting the sound of your laugh or the scent of your hair or anything in between.

It battles with a distinct sense of unpreparedness. Too many variables out of his control just in a simple interaction, though in his defense, an interaction with stakes inexpressibly high.

Frustrating, to be afraid to be either near or far from you.

His stride is uneasy and intermittent as he returns to his room, a faint trail of smoke dissipating in his wake.

* * *

You flutter around the room, packing this and that, the fax crumpled (and torn, and stained with tears) on the floor next to your desk. Your sobs are getting too loud to ignore, head beginning to ache as you shove things into a suitcase with unnecessary ferocity.

 _It wasn’t supposed to end like this,_ you think, blindly reaching out for a tissue. The sound that comes out when you blow your nose is almost comical, a fog horn in the silence of your room, and your eyes are clouded with tears and your chest aches from the effort and _fuck. It wasn’t supposed to end_ _like this._  

The scent of smoke is still discernible despite the snot clogging your nostrils, and you hiccup feebly, clenching the tissue in your fist. Cowards, the both of you.

You’d been too engrossed with the turmoil in your head to see him in your peripheral, and he was certainly stealthy enough to sneak past you even given your full attention. No, it was the telltale miasma of smoke that followed his every move alerting you to his presence. You had frozen, ashamed of yourself for not even thinking of him after finishing the transmission, nor any of your other teammates. You hadn’t even begun to speculate where you would all end up, or if you would see each other again. How much you would miss them.

And Spy, of course he would make his way to you without a second thought. He was imperturbable, endlessly erudite and composed. He would know what to say to lessen the impending doom, to make the ground feel solid underneath your feet again. His hands would rest on your shoulders and he would gaze into your eyes with that self-assured, debonair flair, and the world would right itself.

That dependence possessed you to be silent, to wait for his mark and to follow his lead. Because your first instinct was to run, and you knew that was irrational, you _knew_ it, but it seemed so viable and inviting and safe. Not having to say your goodbyes. Just leaving, without a plan substantial enough to truly deem this the end of your time here.

Impromptu was good. Impromptu meant you couldn’t fail.

Maybe it was selfish to assume Spy would save the day. Unfair to depend on him when you both were thrust into the same unsatisfactory situation. But you knew that he would, that the two of you would puzzle it out, formulate an escape plan, and navigate the treacherous waters of new beginnings together.

Except, neither of you had the courage to say anything. The sheer number of possibilities for disagreement or disapproval was inexplicably intimidating enough, let alone the innumerable consequences and unforeseen aberrations that could follow.

So you sat and pretended you couldn’t see him, and Spy stood and pretended he wasn’t there.

And then he walked away.

The tissue floats gently down to the carpet as you sink to the ground, knees pulled up to your chest as you lean against the footboard of your bed. Your hands tangle themselves in your hair, and you cry and cry until you’re certain you can’t cry anymore.

That’s how Scout finds you an hour later – eyes red-rimmed as you peer up at him from your spot on the floor, clothes spilling out of your suitcase and a small pile of tissues by your feet.

“Y/N?” He asks from the doorway, surprised and concerned with that familiar Bostonian tinge makes your chest forcefully, air spilling out from your lungs in a laboured gasp. He slouches the smallest bit, one hand extended forward cautiously. The expression on his face broadcasts his emotions as clearly as his voice, an empathic mixture of shock and worry, your eyes brimming with tears at the sincerity of it.

With a deep, wheezing breath, you give him your best attempt at a smile, and it must be a goddamn travesty with the way his eyes widen like his breath has been knocked out of his chest.

“Y/N,” he repeats, softer. He rushes to sit down next to you and drapes an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. His head comes to rest atop yours and a warm, comforting hand rubs circles on the small of your back.

You fall into it without question, the cool metal of his dog tags pressed against your cheek. Without much resistance you resign yourself to the fact that you’ve begun to cry, again, but you aren’t the slightest bit surprised when Scout does, too.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! So I have no semblance of a schedule for this and it will update sporadically and probably not at all in a punctual manner. I just want to be upfront about that. And thank you for reading! Hopefully comic 6 comes out soon. Please leave any feedback you have and help me become a better writer. I'm a bit rusty at it right now.
> 
> (Also, embarrassingly enough, whatever song I referred to in my last update of Bucket List has long since been forgotten. But have no fear! I'll be working very hard to find it again.)


End file.
